


Undercover Movercum

by CaseofUnderjoy (lullabelle)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Generally Gross, M/M, Not really comeplay if the come plays with you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 14:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12390342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lullabelle/pseuds/CaseofUnderjoy
Summary: Dean Winchester and the case of the disappearing jism.





	Undercover Movercum

“ _Unf, Cas, yes,_ ” Dean moans at the sensation of Cas’s hand pumping away at his cock. He’s completely in the zone, focus narrowed down to the sensation of Cas’s palm and the burn in his thighs as he struggles to balance on the shifting surface of the mattress. Cas’s breath puffs softly against the shell of his ear, one hand on his hip to steady him while the other one jacks him off. 

Finally, the feelings crest and spike and Dean lets out a strangled shout as he comes. Cas milks him through it until Dean stops him with a hand on his wrist, oversensitive.

“I didn’t give you permission,” Cas murmurs.

“What can I say?” Dean replies breathlessly, finally relinquishing his death grip on the headboard. “I’m a rebel.”

Castiel lets out a derisive huff and sits back. Dean compensates for the sudden lack of support by flopping over onto the unused side of the bed. “Since you made me make the wet spot, you get to lay in it.”

Castiel makes a face. “I’m pretty sure sexual custom dictates otherwise.” He leans over to check the damage. “I don’t see a wet spot. Did you ejaculate?”

“Yeah, Cas. I _ejaculated_ ,” Dean assures him, emphasizing the slightly-cringey terminology. “Come on, let’s sleep. I’m sure you’ll roll in it when you’re least expecting to.”

Cas gives an extravagant eyeroll and settles down beside him.

\---

Dean doesn’t think twice about the lack of wet spot, but it happens again the next night. Dean’s still all blissed out and fuckdrunk from a good, hard railing when Cas frowns at the sheets. “Did you orgasm dry?”

“No, Cas, I orgasmed wet. I orgasmed very, very wet.”

“Hm....”

\---

The next night when Cas says, “Humor me,” Dean’s more than happy to. He ends up on his back, legs open and splayed over Cas’s, on the receiving end of a grade-A handjob. The resulting orgasm makes him see stars and he blows his load all over his own stomach.

“See?” Dean asks when he’s done. “Business as usual in the blown load department.”

Castiel smiles one of those small, subdued smiles that Dean loves so much because he’s pretty sure Cas couldn’t fake it if he tried. “So it appears.” He extricates himself from under Dean’s legs and crawls up to kiss him.

Which is when Dean feels something weird. He pulls away from Cas’s mouth and looks down. On his stomach, the pearly, stringy drops of his come are moving against the pull of gravity to pool together above his navel.

Cas follows his gaze. “That’s unusual,” he comments.

No kidding. Now gathered together in one puddle, it congeals into a small blob and begins moving across his stomach like an inch worm.

“That’s enough,” Dean says, bringing his hand down on it. It splats between his fingers, losing any of the solidity it’d had a moment ago. “Ew.”

Cas hands him a Kleenex from the bed stand. “That was bizarre.”

“Yup,” Dean agrees. It’s late, and they’re both tired, so they decide they’ll look into it in the morning. Dean tosses the used Kleenex into the wastebasket across the room. Neither of them are awake to see Dean’s come carefully extricate itself from its crumpled Kleenex prison and inch its way under the bed.

\---

The next morning they start researching what might have caused the previous night’s weird event, but they’re not really sure what to look for. Dean’s perusing one of their surprisingly numerous volumes on sex magic and getting sidetracked by a chapter on incubus mating cycles -- not helpful, but interesting, and evidently fucking _messy_ \-- so he doesn’t hear Sam come in.

“Uh,” Sam says, seeing an unopened copy of _Practical Sex Curses_ lying on the table. “Light reading?”

Dean’s considering how much he should tell him, but Cas saves him the trouble by diving right in. “Dean’s ejaculate has developed the ability to move autonomously.”

Sam’s entire face droops downward in disgust. “What?”

“Last night after I blew my wad it tried to crawl away.”

Actually, all the awkwardness might be worth it just to watch Sam struggle to process this information. Finally, he seems to give up on speech entirely and just grabs the book off the table. He heaves a box of artifacts he’d been working on cataloguing in his spare time out of the way and settles down to help.

\---

That night Cas jacks Dean off much the way he had the night before, and they spend several minutes afterward doing nothing but staring at the cooling jizz on Dean’s stomach. It doesn’t move. Maybe whatever had happened was just a one time thing?

Eventually Dean wipes himself off with a Kleenex and they go to sleep.

\---

They spend the next couple days on a simple salt-and-burn. The combination of spending all night unearthing graves and their constant proximity to Sam means that both the case of the runaway come and Dean’s libido have to be put on hold. 

They don’t really plan it, but when they get back one thing leads to another... Dean’s not sure if he’s proud of how his impulsivity has rubbed off on Cas -- oh, who’s he kidding, he’s super proud -- and that’s how they end up in the shower together, Dean pubes-deep in Cas’s ass while Cas provides direction in that no-nonsense tone of voice of his that makes Dean’s brain short circuit. Dean comes growling and biting at Cas’s shoulders and a few more strokes sends Cas tumbling after him.

After that they both crash hard after two days of hard work and a high quality shower bang. Dean’s not sure how much time’s passed, only that he’s well-and-truly out, when he’s woken by something shaking him. It’s Cas.

“Dean,” Cas says. “Wake up.”

“Mwah?” Dean says.

“It’s your ejaculate.”

God, Dean wishes Cas would stop using that word. Tomorrow he’s going to have to give him Colloquialisms for Semen 101.

“Dean, it’s moving again. Dean, _it’s coming out of me._ ”

That gets his attention. “Can you clench?”

“Oh wow, clenching, why didn’t I think of that?”

Welp, good to know Sarcasm 101 is unnecessary. Dean turns on the bedside lamp and Cas rolls onto his stomach so that Dean can spread his cheeks. And yeah, he’s still gaping a little, and Dean really shouldn’t feel smug about it right now.

“Dean, this sensation is _very disconcerting_ ,” Cas reminds him.

“Okay, just… relax and let it out.”

Cas groans unhappily but seems to recognize the wisdom in the advice, visibly relaxing under Dean’s hands. Dean sees it, same as before, some kind of come-slug wriggling its way out of Cas’s asshole on a quest for freedom.

Cas relaxes further once the thing’s cleared his sphincter, and as soon as it’s made its way up to his asscheek, Dean slaps his hand down on it. Cas let’s out a little yelp.

 _This isn’t sexy,_ Dean thinks at his penis. His penis, as usual, ignores him. Dean does his best to keep the wayward comewad trapped beneath his hand, but the feeling of it squirming, a viscous tickle against his palm, proves to be too much and he yanks away.

This one moves _much_ faster than the last one, and before Dean’s even finished frantically wiping his hand on the blanket to make the sensation go away, it’s scooted off Cas, off the bed, and has landed on the floor with a faint _plop!_

“Shit!” Dean yells.

Dean jumps up and off the bed and Cas follows after him. “I think it went under.”

Dean scrambles back to his side of the bed for his cell phone, to use as a flashlight.

“Hurry up!” Cas yells.

“I’m hurrying, jeez.” Dean gets his phone, fumbling the password twice before remembering he can just swipe up.

“Dean!” Cas yells again.

The door to the room swings open. “Shit!” Sam yells, immediately covering his eyes with one hand.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean finally gets the flashlight app working and tosses his phone to Cas, who fumbles it but doesn’t let it drop. “Don’t you knock?”

“I knocked! Are you guys okay?” Hand still over his eyes, Sam gives two exaggerated sniffs. “Dean, it smells like the inside of a used tube sock in here.”

“What? No. We’re fine, it smells fine.”

“It _really_ doesn’t.”

“I, for one, enjoy Dean’s musk,” Cas chimes in.

Sam makes a noise like he’s in pain.

“We had another runaway jizz incident,” Dean explains. The general panic of a few minutes ago is beginning to ebb. He’s happy to see that Cas, who has more to complain about than he does about the last few minutes, also seems to be calming down. He opens his dresser and pulls out a pair of sweatpants for himself, and a pair of Cas’s boxer shorts which he tosses over to him. Once they’ve both put them on, he tells Sam, “Your delicate sensibilities are safe.”

The three of them spend the next twenty minutes looking under all the furniture in the room, but ultimately they come up empty.

\---

Late the next morning when they all finally manage to drag themselves up, even though Dean thinks Sam was seriously overstating how bad his room smelled, he thinks it might be time to give a good once-over. He throws his bedclothes into the bunker’s ancient-but-efficient industrial laundry machine and props his door open with a fan running to air it out a little while he gets some cleaning supplies together. He’s just about ready to get down to business when he hears his name being yelled at top volume from the library.

Dean takes off at a run, arriving the about the same time as Cas, coming in from the kitchen and wiping his hands off with a dish towel.

Sam’s perched on a chair like a cartoon elephant who’s just seen a mouse. He points at the low table in the corner with the half-full snifter of whiskey on it. “It’s under there.”

“What’s under there?”

“Your… freaking semen monster.”

Dean frowns. He approaches one side of the table, and Cas moves into position on the other. Together they lift in one swift movement, rattling the glasses but somehow managing to not upend any of them.

And semen _monster_ is probably not what Dean would call it. What he’s looking down at is a squat, faceless, potbellied semen _person_ about the size of his hand. 

“Huh,” Cas says. “It’s a homunculus.”

“A what now?” Dean asks. They put the table down. The little creature tilts its featureless head at them as if listening.

“Small humanoid servants made out of parts of their master… sometimes they’re made of hair, but more often phlegm.”

“Wow, that’s even grosser than semen,” Dean says.

“No,” Sam chimes in, “it’s not.”

“But they have to be made deliberately,” Cas continues, “and I believe the spell for it is fairly complicated. It involves molding the being by hand. Why did yours just… shape itself?”

Sam makes a gagging noise at the phrase “molding by hand”, but Dean and Cas ignore him.

“That sounds like a witch thing,” Dean says.

“It’s a witch thing,” Castiel confirms.

“Well, at least that gives us a place to look.”

Sam’s sitting on the table now, feet still in the chair he’d jumped on, with his head in his hands. “There’s not enough bleach in the world.”

\---

While Cas’s information does give them a place to start, it doesn’t really lead them anywhere useful. They take a few simple cases around the area, but a most of their spare time over the next few weeks is spent trying to figure out a cure for Dean’s unique issue. True enough to what Cas had said, the little creature listens to Dean when he gives it a direct order. Dean restricts his orders more or less to “stay here and don’t touch anything” because having a tiny house slave doesn’t sit right with him, regardless of whether or not it’s actually alive per se, and regardless of the fact it’s made of his own trouser gravy.

Sam, for his part, eventually gets the bright idea to try dunking the thing in bleach. He picks it up with a gloved hand, but as soon as he lifts it away from where Dean had ordered it to sit, it dissolves back into liquid. It reforms on the ground while Dean nearly splits his sides laughing at Sam’s yelling and cursing. The homunculus climbs back into its assigned position on the shelf and Sam incinerates the glove.

A few days after the attempted bleach incident, Sam walks in on Dean skimming through some old textbook while the homunculus sits next to him in a shoebox, peering over the rim to watch _I Love Lucy_ on Dean’s laptop.

“Why’s that thing out here?”

Dean barely spares it a glance. “It was bored. It seems to like Lucy.”

“It seems to like -- Dean, it doesn’t even have eyes.”

Dean shrugs. “It sees just fine.” He waves at it. The little creature waves back.

A second pearly white head pops over the rim of the box. 

“There’s _two_ of them now?”

Dean continues to be nonplussed. “A man has needs.”

“Dean, seriously, you can’t just like... abstain for a little while?”

“We can’t all be monks like you, Sammy.” He finally looks up. “You know, I think they need names.”

Sam takes a deep breath and begins counting backward from ten in his head.

Dean points at the first one, “Kevin,” the second one, “Charlie --”

“Dean!”

“What?”

“You _cannot_ name your jizz-goblins after our dead friends.”

Dan huffs. “Fine. Tom, Jerry, and,” he adds with a small measure of guilt, “Spunky Brewster.”

Sam moves closer to see a third homunculus sitting on the bottom of the box, riveted by a fidget spinner it’s flicking around with its digitless hands.

“You know what?” Sam says, Not Yelling. “I’m going to take a drive.”

“Yeah, okay. Pick up some Febreze while you’re out.”

\---

Eventually, the inevitable finally happens in the form of their giant-ass library running out of useful resources. A fourth homunculus forms, and Dean knows he can’t just keep producing them with no end in sight, and he knows Cas is thinking the same thing. Their sex life slows down a bit on top of all three of them being burnt out and bitchy. It’s Cas who suggests a day off. _All the way_ off. They can do whatever they want as long as it involves no significant work.

Sam, for his part, makes himself scarce most of the morning. Dean and Cas decide on a movie marathon, and they’re about fifteen minutes into Guardians of the Galaxy vol. 2 when Sam comes barreling back in, dropping something onto Dean’s bedstand with a thunk.

Dean picks it up curiously. It looks just like one of the homunculuses… homunculi? Homunculeses? Like one of those, but smaller and made of what looks like bronze.

“Huh,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “It was in that box of artifacts from storage, the one I’d been going through before all this started? There’s an inscription on the bottom in ancient Sumerian. Stealth… mobile… seed, maybe?”

Cas takes the figurine from Dean, squinting at the inscription. “The Sumerian is ancient, but this inscription is not, and whoever wrote this was just as bad at translating it as you are.”

Dean coughs back a laugh, but Cas doesn’t even look up. “I’d say this _artifact_ is only sixty or seventy years old at most, and the result of amateur dabbling.”

“Magnus, maybe?” Dean suggests. “I mean, if anyone was messed up enough to want a house elf army made out of his own splooge, it’d be that guy.”

“Heh, probably,” Sam agrees. “Though we still don’t know why it activated, and why it activated _for you_.”

Dean… might actually have some idea why, now that he’s thinking about it. The guilty look on Cas’s face suggests he’s come to the same conclusion.

“What?” Sam demands.

“It’s… possible that at one point Cas and I were in the library... and one thing led to another, and I may have… _finished_ in the artifact box.”

“You didn’t.”

“It was an accident,” Castiel adds. “And we were careful to clean them fully afterward.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we please agree to no more fucking in the library?”

Cas agrees immediately. Dean doesn’t like limiting his sexual horizons like that, but when Cas elbows him he agrees, “Okay, okay. No fucking in the library.”

“One good thing,” Cas says, “Is if we destroy the figurine, I’m pretty sure our problem will be solved.”

“Where are our little problems, anyway?” Sam asks.

“Five hundred piece Lisa Frank puzzle in the store room. Cas and I needed some private time.”

“Where did you get a five hundred piece Lisa F--- you know what, I don’t care. Let’s go melt this thing.”

\---

The bunker is equipped with a forge, because of course it is. Dean disappears into the store room en route, to say goodbye. The homuncul...ees? barely notice him, completely absorbed in their puzzle, which is close to halfway finished. Dean doesn’t disturb them. Better get this over with while they’re distracted.

Melting the bronze figure is less difficult than expected, and is weirdly anticlimactic. No flash of light or anything. Just a shapeless hunk of metal on the cooling rack. A trip to the store room reveals nothing but a half completed puzzle and a come-sodden pile of neon cardboard, one look at which sends Sam heading for the hills.

Dean’s about to go get friendly with the cleaning supplies again when Cas stops him with a finger in his belt loop. “You know, in order to make sure this situation has truly resolved, it would be prudent for us to make sure your ejaculate is truly inert.”

“You know, you’re right. And who am I to argue with prudence?” Dean agrees, and allows himself to be led. It’s not like the come pile in the store room is going anywhere.


End file.
